


Summer Song

by Scattered_Irises



Series: Saffrons in the Palm of Your Hand [7]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gothic, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internal Monologue, POV First Person, Prose Poem, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scattered_Irises/pseuds/Scattered_Irises
Summary: Wandering through the frigid halls of Carnation Valley, he dreams of summer and sunlight. He thinks back to his days of freedom, a pang filling his chest.He will never be free again.
Series: Saffrons in the Palm of Your Hand [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1164035





	Summer Song

**Author's Note:**

> This is from my short story writing book. I wanted at once to explore Kaito's character in this AU and also to practice first person. In addition, I also wanted to practice my "gothic" style of prose. As much as I enjoy writing in this description-heavy style, I cannot find many opportunities to do so.

I run my hands along the crenellations of the walls at night. They slide past my fingers with a hint of resistance, as if they were begging me not to go. I can almost imagine thin, dusty tendrils wrapping themselves around my fingers, their touches as light as a feather.

“ _Not so soon,_ ” they would plead to me in their quiet voices. “ _Please.”_

To desire touch, flesh upon flesh, veins filled with blood separated by a thin wall of skin, nerves and all, colliding, stroking, brushing up against one another in a silent symphony, neurons lighting up like New Year’s fireworks...Oh, to love and be loved.  _ No,  _ not even that. To care and be cared for. That is what I want. And that is what I will never have as long as I remain here. 

I can’t remember the last time anyone has properly held me. I can’t remember the last time anyone held my hand with love and respect in their eyes, save for the distant memory of someone that is no longer here. Even a look, filled with tenderness and simple kindness would do. Just to see me. Past the suffocating dresses. Past the bandages and bruises. Past the face that I can no longer recognize. Just me. 

My lips form the sounds of my name, mouthing them out to the unseeing portraits at night. Yet my vocal cords remain still and only air comes out of my lips. It is a forbidden set of syllables now. Such is my fate. 

I walk through the halls like an ivy-colored ghost, chasing after memories that have long gone. My footsteps fall silent on the worn carpet. My eyes become misty, filled with distant memories of warmth. My lips mouth the same four syllables over and over again, yet make no sound. In hopes of finding a ghost, I have become one. 

“ _ Who were you before you were imprisoned in paint and canvas? _ ” I silently ask the array of portraits. 

Their faces remain solemn and unchanging, like that of a forgotten sheet of paper. I know that they will never answer my questions, but it is something that I am still hopeful of, as silly as it is. In a land so devoid of joy and hope, I cannot be choosy. I must take everything that comes my way in stride and with open hands, for I will not know when the next speck of light will arrive.

At the end of the hallway, my own portrait stares back at me and I am filled with a sense of dread. 

The next occupants of this house will not know who I was besides for this portrait. They will never know my name—my true name—that isn’t engraved at the bottom of the portrait. They will never know of the sacrifices that I have had to make in mind, body and soul. They will never know that my soul was stained black, that my skin was bruised purple and blue and that I had never once experienced a single loving gesture in this house. They will never know that I had once soared on the borrowed wings of freedom, the wind at my back and the city beneath my feet. 

I will only be seen as yet another Lady Arclight, seemingly unremarkable in life as I am in the painting. 

I know that I will never fly again. 

The constant draft chills me to my bones. It is cold here. It is always cold here. Thus, I dream of summer. An endless, golden summer where butterflies freely flit about and the sun shines its golden rays upon all things beautiful and natural. The waters are blessedly cool and the fields are filled with the crisp scent of summer fruits and flowers. Green hills will roll on and stretch as far as the eye can see. I hold a banjo in my unbroken and unbruised hands, tenderly caressing it as if it were an old friend. The pastoral melody from my instrument fills the air, wreathing itself around the infinite countryside. 

My fingers deftly dance across the strings, doing a spirited square dance of their own. They are soon joined by an upbeat fiddle, the player inexperienced yet enthusiastic. We walk through the flowery forest, lilies-of-the-valleys dotting our path with speckles of white. 

We have no worries. We only have music and the scents, sights and sounds of an eternal summer on our minds. Nary a fence in our way. Nary a net nor cage on our bodies, for to imprison another creature is to sentence it to a premature death. Even if the body does not perish, the spirit does. And a body without a spirit is as good as dead and buried. 

Yes, I dream a dream of freedom. Endless, boundless, golden freedom. A dream as impossible as growing wings and flying out of my prison of icy gentility. And, even if I did have wings, they would have been sawn off long ago. Hacked to pieces and stomped to bits. 

I am cold. I will always be cold. As long as I remain in this house with its unsmiling inhabitants and stern paintings, Arctic waters will continue to flow through my veins. My dream of summer is a matchstick to a blizzard. It is bound to be snuffed out and bound to be forgotten, just like my past and my true name. By the time a new set of eyes looks at me, I will be nothing but a collection of dried paint on a worn canvas. 


End file.
